A Curious Affair
by Paruparo
Summary: A mysterious masked tenant rents rooms from landlady Eugenie Bardot. She tries to know him better but finds that the more she knows about him, the more questions arise. What is behind that mask? What is he hiding? Who is 'Erik'..?
1. The Mysterious Tenant

**Disclaimer: I disclaim it!**

**A/N: I used elements from both the original book by Gaston Leroux and also Susan Kay's Phantom. Be warned that I twisted the facts a little to fit my story. It may also occasionally be historically inaccurate. It is set after Erik left Persia and came back to Paris.**

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Chapter One – The Mysterious Tenant**

It was already very late in the night when I sat down on the old armchair near the fireplace, placed my elbow upon the armrest and rested the side of my head on my closed fist. It was in this position that I waited for the arrival of my new tenant, who, true to Monsieur Jules Bernard's word, was indeed keeping ungodly hours. Heavens, it was nearing midnight, and still he had not come yet!

As I stared at the fire, my thoughts inevitably turned to the rather curious circumstances surrounding the mysterious new gentleman tenant. M. Bernard seemed curiously anxious for me to accept his employer as a tenant in my apartments, to the point of offering me a thousand francs a month! I regarded this offer warily, guessing that there must be a catch— a reason why he offered so much money even though the rooms I was offering were certainly not first class. Instead of relying on guesses, I proceeded to ask M. Bernard bluntly the reason behind the overly generous sum of money he was offering me.

By now, I had already memorized M. Bernard's exact words after replaying them over and over again in my mind. I remember that M. Bernard had stayed silent for a moment, evidently deciding if I could be taken into confidence.

"It would be wrong not to tell you the truth, Madame Bardot." He spoke finally, and then paused, as if choosing his words carefully, "My employer does not generally get along with most people. Or rather, people do not get along with him... Time and again, he has been asked by the proprietors of his previous apartments to leave. He has been forced to change residences four times already."

I must have looked alarmed because he quickly added, "But I assure you, he is a good person! A good person, Madame! He's very generous and he doesn't cause any trouble. He's something of a recluse, actually. Only, people don't understand him because he is…"

"… Eccentric?" I suggested helpfully.

"I was going to say 'different' but yes, you are also correct to say that." replied M. Bernard, who now looked a little agitated, "You do not accept?"

"Well, no. I mean, yes. I mean I accept." I stammered, a little flustered for I was too easily flustered, "I suppose I can deal with _eccentric_. As long as he's not too eccentric…?" I said vaguely.

"What do you mean by too eccentric?" said M. Bernard nervously.

"You know… Insane, deranged, disturbed, mentally ill…?" I suggested.

"No, no! Nothing like that!" replied M. Bernard, sounding just a little unconfident.

"Very well then, I have no further complaints…" I said with a smile that, I hoped, looked convincing enough.

M. Bernard released a sigh of relief. It was as if he were holding his breath until the moment that I finally gave my answer.

"Thank you, Madame." he said with undisguised relief.

"When will he be moving in?"

"Tonight, if it is possible. I shall bring in his belongings presently, if it is alright with you."

"Certainly," I said, a little surprised at the suddenness, "I shall show you up to his rooms."

I called the houseboy, and he and M. Bernard completed the task swiftly for the mysterious tenant surprisingly had only a few belongings. M. Bernard thanked me again and warned me that his employer would probably come late at night and apologized ahead for the trouble I would be taking waiting for him. Before M. Bernard left, I remembered to ask him what his employer's name was.

"His name is Erik." replied M. Bernard.

"Erik—?" I echoed, expecting to be given his surname as well.

"He does not give out his surname. Even I do not know his surname." said M. Bernard, in an apologetic tone.

And so, that is how I came to be still awake in the middle of the night waiting for this mysterious man whose surname I did not even know. How could I be sure that the next Erik who turned up on my doorstep was my new 'eccentric' tenant if I did not even know his surname? What if some maniac claimed to be this Erik person, entered my house and then proceeded to pour salt all over his head and dance naked on my roof? I both shuddered and laughed at the strange and disturbing thought. I prepared myself to face the worst the word 'eccentric' had to throw at me.

I suppose I must have dozed off for a minute, for I was startled awake by the sound of a soft knock on the front door. I hurriedly made sure that I looked decent and, taking a candle, opened the door with caution.

"Yes?" I said timidly.

It was already so dark that, with the feeble light of my candle, I could only see the vague figure of an unusually tall man wearing a hooded cloak. My heart jumped at the eerie sight, but I struggled to keep the sudden fear I felt from showing on my face. I was determined to be completely civil to the man, regardless of his appearance. I had always believed that every person had the right to be treated with respect, and I was not about to allow the fear that crept into my heart to let me be rude or unkind. Goodness, I for one should know how absolutely degrading it is to be judged by appearances alone! Once, I had been ushered out of a restaurant simply because the waiter thought that I did not look like I had the money to pay! I admit that I am not very wealthy— but still! The nerve of that— however, I seem to have digressed.

Despite my aversion to judging by appearances, I still could not help but give a quick look to appraise the man. After all, it wouldn't hurt to be careful. I noticed that even though the man's hood hid most of the upper part of his face, the area between his eyes and lips was still visible. My attention was immediately drawn to the white mask he seemed to be wearing. However curious I was, I took care not to stare or appear shocked, for that would certainly have been rude. I was determined to politely look him straight in the eyes, even though I was rather taken aback at seeing how his yellow eyes seemed to glitter in the dark. I was beginning to get nervous with this man.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle." said the man, surprising me with a voice that was unlike any other male voice I had ever heard. It was incredibly soft and deep, and yet amazingly firm, clear and well-modulated. He had only spoken, and yet I felt that he had sung, for there was a certain melody, a certain mellifluous quality to his voice. It was as if his entire being was musical, as if he were making music unconsciously.

"Good evening, sir." I managed to reply calmly, as my nerves were instantly soothed by the unmistakable gentleness in the masked man's voice.

"Is your mistress still awake?" he said with his melodic voice.

For a moment, I was confused. Then it became apparent that he had mistaken me for a maid.

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A/N: Like it? Love it? Tell me what you think, but please be nice!**


	2. Good Night, Sir

**A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed! You really made my day :) And thank you also for the grammar help!**

Chapter Two- Good Night, Sir

I do not believe I knew what to do. I wanted to reply wittily, saying something like: "You are looking for my mistress, Monsieur? But I am my own mistress!" or angrily, saying something like: "You dare take me for a mere maid?!" or perhaps melodramatically, saying something like: "Is the mistress awake? She is very much awake, and very much in front of you!"

However, despite my creativity, all I was able to do back then with my brilliant speaking skills was— stare. I simply stared at him stupidly, and my mouth opened and closed obscenely, trying to voice the words that refused to come. Thankfully, this Monsieur Erik was quite the gentleman, as he did not laugh at me outright, though I was sure I saw his lip quiver in amusement. Instead of laughing at me, he tilted his head slightly forward, as one would when one is encouraging a child to speak— which embarrassed me all the more because I, an adult of five and twenty years, was being treated as a mere child! After a second or two of my excruciating embarrassment, he saved me by breaking the silence,

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. You are not the maid, are you?" he said in an apologetic tone.

"No, I am not," I finally managed to reply, "I am the landlady. Also, it is not '_Mademoiselle_' but _'Madame'_. Madame Eugenie Bardot, at your service," I said, giving a little curtsey.

"A pleasure to meet you, Madame Bardot," said Monsieur Erik, bowing politely. "Forgive me for my insensitive mistake."

"It's all right, really," I said, with a little laugh, "It's not an uncommon mistake."

Indeed, I have been mistaken for a maid for several times that I am sure my mother, who had aristocratic roots but had renounced them to marry my father, would have lashed out in righteous indignation had she been alive to do so. However, it was not a mistake that was hard to make, really. I was as plain as a dormouse, and about as striking as a broomstick. I had an unfashionable crop of unruly mouse-brown hair, a plain pair of dark brown eyes, and a most ordinary nose— altogether a plain, dependable and decidedly maid-like face. Also, I had just recently had trouble with money, thus forcing me to rent the rooms in my house and scrimp a little. If I had not done so, I would no doubt have had to become a true maid— a most shameful prospect.

"And you must be… Monsieur Erik?" I said, trying to smile.

"Indeed, I am."

"Erik—?" I said, knowing that he would not give his surname but trying my luck anyway.

"Erik," he repeated, with a tone of command and finality, obviously refusing to tell me what I wanted to know.

"Well then, Monsieur Erik," I said, nervousness creeping into my voice, "Shall I show you in?"

I opened the door fully and stepped back to let him in. He entered the room with more grace than I thought possible in a man. When he was inside my house, his figure was illuminated both by the fire crackling in the fireplace and the candle that I was holding in my hand. I tried to get a better look at him, to determine his age and such. I was very much surprised by what I saw. It was hard to place his age, seeing as he moved with the strength of a young man, and yet his body was, well, decidedly odd. In his dress clothes, he looked impossibly lean and thin, the skin on his hands was absolutely white and— almost _skeleton-like_, to tell the truth.

"I hope the place is acceptable, sir. I am sure you are used to richer surroundings…" I looked around the hall nervously.

"No, no. It is quite acceptable, you need not worry, Madame," he replied.

"That's very good, sir," I said, with genuine relief, "Shall I show you up to your room now?"

"Certainly," he said engagingly.

I led the way up the staircase, and Monsieur Erik followed ten paces behind. It struck me that it seemed as if he were making sure he was as far from me as possible. After climbing the last stair, I turned left and proceeded to the room at the very end of the corridor. It was very lucky that this room was vacant, and it was even luckier that it was rather far from the other two tenants in the house. I had not forgotten that Monsieur Erik was not a very social person. Monsieur Erik walked inside the room and turned his head slowly, surveying the surroundings.

"Please, make yourself at home," I said, nervously eyeing the simple furniture available, realizing how bare the room actually was.

He did not reply at once. Instead, he kept quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Is there a problem, sir?" I asked.

"It's strange…" he said, more to himself than to me.

"Strange?"

"Forgive me, I was thinking," he said, looking up at me, "Madame, you've told me that I was to address you as _Madame _and not _Mademoiselle_, and yet," he paused, before continuing to say carefully, "And yet, in any part of the house, I did not see any sign of your husband."

I sighed audibly. I knew from the start that he was going to ask this sooner or later as the other tenants had, but I had thought he would ask it _later_, like the others, and not so soon. He was, undoubtedly, a very observant man— more perceptive than most people.

I did not reply instantly. I looked down at my feet for a moment, and then looked up again to meet his piercing golden gaze.

"My husband is— well, he is gone," I said softly.

"I'm sorry, I did not know," he replied quickly, the golden gleam in his eyes softening.

"Oh, don't be." I said dismissively, a hint of irritation in my voice. I caught the look of surprise on his face, which prompted me to explain further, "When I said he was gone, I didn't mean that he was dead. I only meant that— I meant that he's not here," I finished, flushing slightly from the effort of controlling the tremor in my voice.

"I'm sorry…" he said quietly, and he seemed truly sorry.

"It's all right…" I replied, just as quietly.

I was grateful that he didn't press me for more details. I still wasn't prepared to discuss that part of my life with anyone, especially not with a stranger.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" I asked as I was about to leave.

"No, thank you, everything is perfect," he said, and the kindness in his eyes made my own eyes start to sting embarrassingly. God, was I turning into some kind of idiotic sympathy-starved character in a melodrama?

"Well then, good night, sir," I said brightly and closed the door.

As I turned to leave, I felt a strange friendly feeling for this man blossoming within me. Frightening and strange as his appearance was, I somehow knew that behind all that was something more. Perhaps, behind all those thorns was a beautiful rose.

Indeed, I am becoming terribly melodramatic.


End file.
